Bianjing City. The bite of winter was finally beginning to retreat.
Lately, the palace eunuchs had found themselves increasingly unable to decipher the Emperor's intentions.
It had started innocently enough. Zhao Kuangyin ordered an ordinary stone table moved from the imperial gardens into the heated greenhouse, then treated the thing with the reverence usually reserved for sacred relics.
Then came the lockdown.
The Imperial Guards surrounded the hall with swords drawn and eyes sharp.
The servants were baffled. Seriously, a stonemason could literally carve an identical table for a few hundred coins in half a day. Did His Majesty truly believe someone would go to all that trouble just to steal a lump of rock?
Well, perhaps they would.
Barely two weeks into the heavy guard duty, tragedy struck. A palace maid and two senior eunuchs drowned after falling into wells near the hall. The official reports classified the deaths as accidents: slippery moss, a lost footing, and an unfortunate fall.
Who would believe that? Did the palace think everyone else had the brain of a monkey?
Nobody in the palace believed a word of it.
The entire staff began walking on eggshells, while whispers spread through the dark corners of the corridors. According to the rumors, the three victims had tried to sneak into the hall under cover of darkness, intending to smash the stone table with axes, whether driven by greed or acting on someone's orders. Instead, they had met a watery end.
The wells, at least, were now well-fed.
Whether the rumors were true or false, the surviving staff learned one lesson: stay away from that hall. And also, avoid wells.
Today, however, the tension in the palace was palpable. Servants kept stealing glances toward the side entrance, their eyes following every high-ranking official who entered the building.
They had good reason to worry. The Emperor had gone inside first, and only minutes later, Zhao Pu arrived. The Grand Councilor had recently been reinstated, and his return marked a significant shift in the balance of power at court. Zhao Guangyi, the Emperor's younger brother and Prefect of Kaifeng, followed soon afterward.
Worse still, the Emperor had brought several young eunuchs with him. These boys had been selected for their abilities, not merely their willingness to serve.
If another "accident in the wells" occurred, the older servants feared they might be blamed. And even if they escaped punishment, there was always the possibility that they'd be ordered to haul water buckets from beyond the palace walls to make up for the missing staff.
The buckets, unfortunately, were the least of their concerns. Nobody wanted to be the next one pulled out of a well.
Inside the heated hall, Zhao Kuangyin paid no attention to their paranoia. He had no time for superstition.
His attention was fixed on the three young men kneeling before him. Zhao Pu had personally recommended them, selecting each for a clean background, reliable character, and, most importantly, exceptional skill in fine-brush painting.
Zhao Kuangyin had summoned them for one specific purpose: to copy the Light Screen.
Yet as he examined the small stone table, barely three feet across, a practical problem became apparent. How were the artists supposed to observe the projection clearly while keeping enough room to stretch their arms and paint? The viewing angle was awkward, and the light was too dim.
He was still considering how to solve the problem when Zhao Pu and Zhao Guangyi entered the hall, interrupting the discussion. Fortunately, the solution arrived without either of them needing to offer a suggestion.
A soft glow spread across the stone surface, and unfamiliar text appeared before the three bewildered artists.
[User privileges upgrading... Upgrade complete.]
[Effective upon restart. Restarting...]
The light faded, leaving the room in darkness once more.
Zhao Kuangyin frowned. Had the device broken?
Then a beam of brilliant light erupted from the center of the table and shot upward, piercing the ceiling. The roof dissolved before their eyes, leaving an enormous opening in the heavens, as though an immortal had reached down and torn a hole through the clouds.
A familiar voice descended from the rift, warm, casual, and modern.
The three painters finally exhaled. The sudden display had frightened them half to death, and hearing that familiar voice was an immense relief.
Zhao Kuangyin, meanwhile, was already assessing the new arrangement. The projection now filled the air above the room, making its contents far easier to see.
There was just one problem: staring straight upward for hours would leave his painters with aching necks and stiff shoulders. He made a mental note to have some reclining couches prepared. Comfortable artists would produce better work, after all.
Zhao Pu had no such practical concerns at the moment. His attention was entirely consumed by the streams of text scrolling across the vast display, and his curiosity was burning.
After the previous session, the Emperor had shared a few scattered details about the Light Screen. It could reveal truths from the past and outcomes from the future, he had hinted, but whenever Zhao Pu pressed him for specifics, particularly about the names appearing in the system logs, Zhao Kuangyin became deliberately vague.
The secrecy frustrated the Grand Councilor. That was precisely why he had insisted on selecting skilled painters for this task. Spoken words could be twisted, and memories could fade, but ink and pigment offered a more lasting record. Every conversation had to be documented, every important figure captured, and every detail preserved so that no one could later distort what had actually happened.
Now, as he watched legendary figures converse across the void of time, Zhao Pu felt his fingers twitch.
He wanted to write something.
Grand Councilor Zhao Pu here.
He even reached for a brush. Then he stopped.
Not yet.
---
Tang Dynasty. Chang'an. Ganlu Hall.
The Light Screen had last appeared on the third day of the first lunar month. Three months had passed since then. It was now the third day of the fourth month.
Spring had fully arrived, bringing pleasant weather to Chang'an. Yet the capital was busier than ever.
The establishment of the Mathematics Pavilion had caused quite a stir. Separating mathematics from the Imperial Academy was unprecedented, and critics condemned the move as heresy while traditionalists warned that it would lead to moral decay. Nevertheless, the Emperor and his Chancellors pressed ahead with unwavering resolve.
Fortunately, the outbreak of war in Liangzhou soon diverted the court's attention toward the northwestern frontier, allowing the transition to proceed with surprisingly little resistance.
In late March, Li Shimin issued an imperial edict condemning the Tuyuhun for their repeated raids along the frontier. He ordered Li Jing, who was already stationed in Liangzhou, to launch a full-scale invasion.
The objective was straightforward: capture the Tuyuhun Khan, beat him senseless, bring him back to Chang'an, and make him answer for everything his people had done.
The decree sent shockwaves through the capital.
The commoners of Chang'an, however, were delighted. They had only recently watched Illig Qaghan dance in humiliation, and now they wanted a sequel. Bring the Tuyuhun Khan to the capital as well! Put the two defeated rulers side by side and make them perform together!
After all, the Emperor had laid out the facts. The Tuyuhun had repeatedly raided Tang territory, and the people living along the frontier had suffered for it. Surely, dragging their ruler to Chang'an and giving him a taste of humiliation was a reasonable price for peace.
If someone wanted to hang him upside down and give him a good beating while they were at it, well, the commoners weren't about to object.
The imperial court, however, saw a far more complicated picture.
History offered little reassurance. From the Han dynasty's wars against the Xiongnu to the recent lightning campaign against Illig Qaghan, the lesson of fighting steppe powers remained the same: strike at the command tent and bring down the leadership. Without a decisive blow against the enemy's core, an army could spend months chasing a mobile opponent across the grasslands without ever securing a meaningful victory.
But did General Li actually know where the Tuyuhun Khan had pitched his yurt?
If the campaign bogged down, the supply lines could bleed the treasury dry. Transporting grain over long distances was expensive, and every additional day in the field meant more men to feed and more resources to consume. Worse still, a prolonged war could destabilize the Hexi Corridor, which had only recently begun to recover after years of turmoil.
Why not proceed more cautiously? Open negotiations. Wait for a better opportunity. There was no need to rush headlong into a costly campaign when the outcome remained uncertain.
The censors voiced these concerns loudly, as they were expected to do. This time, however, they found themselves facing an unusually solid wall of opposition. The Chancellors stood firmly behind the Emperor's decision, and even Wei Zheng, the troll master in the entire empire, kept his mouth shut and watched the strategy unfold in silence.
That alone was enough to make the other censors reconsider their position.
Realizing that the political tide had turned, they gradually fell quiet. The army was already marching, the imperial edict had been sealed, and the campaign was underway.
The arrow had left the bow. There would be no calling it back.
With the generals deployed to the front, Qin Qiong and Yuchi Jingde found themselves with new responsibilities. They studied frontline reports, ran strategic simulations, and prepared for the day they might once again lead troops into battle themselves.
Meanwhile, Inugami no Mitasuki remained patient. He intended to follow the Emperor's suggestion to the letter: stay in Chang'an until July, wait for the victory parade, witness the Tuyuhun Khan's submission, and then return east.
His king needed to understand two crucial truths before they could carry out their long-term plan.
First, the Great Tang was terrifyingly powerful. If Japan ever declared war against the empire, its destruction would be all but inevitable.
Second, the Great Tang had little interest in the Eastern Sea. Its ambitions lay to the west, toward the Silk Road and the distant Western Regions.
The question was whether Tang could defeat Tuyuhun quickly enough to make that second truth clear. Inugami had more confidence in Li Jing's ability to win than the general himself probably possessed. After all, this was the Great Tang. How could it possibly lose?
---
When April arrived, Li Shimin held a private consultation with Du Ruhui and Fang Xuanling. After discussing the matter, the three men reached a consensus: it was time to invite the Empress.
Politically, Zhangsun was the Mother of the Empire, a woman whose influence extended well beyond the inner palace. She helped guide the Crown Prince and played an important role in shaping the next generation of the imperial family.
But there was a more personal reason to include her. Whenever Li Shimin discussed the future revealed by the Light Screen, her eyes would light up with curiosity. She asked thoughtful questions and listened intently, never bothering to hide her fascination. Her interest was genuine, and Li Shimin saw no reason to keep her away from something that had captivated them all.
Besides, several of the empire's most important generals were away on campaign, leaving empty chairs in Ganlu Hall. With so many familiar faces absent, inviting the Empress felt like a natural way to bring a little more warmth into the gathering.
And so, on the third day of the fourth month, Empress Zhangsun entered Ganlu Hall.
She wore deep crimson robes embroidered with phoenixes, and her bearing was as composed and regal as ever, softened by the warmth that made her so beloved by those around her.
She took her seat beside the Emperor, settling in as though she had always belonged there.
Li Shimin glanced at the topic displayed on the Light Screen and let out a rueful laugh.
"Arriving early is good," he remarked, shaking his head, "but arriving at precisely the right moment is even better. Your timing is impeccable, Guanyinbi."
Empress Zhangsun responded with a faint smile but offered no comment. Behind her composed expression, however, her thoughts were already racing.
She knew the girl being discussed. The child surnamed Wu was talented, sharp-witted, and likable. Empress Zhangsun had no difficulty understanding why others might take an interest in her future. But the idea of a woman ascending the imperial throne, commanding armies, and ruling an empire was another matter entirely.
It was impossible to imagine.
Yet the Light Screen presented these events as established facts, displaying names, dates, and historical developments with an assurance that left little room for doubt.
Li Shimin, meanwhile, showed no hesitation. He stepped forward, picked up a brush, and began composing a reply directly through the interface.
Then he turned toward his wife, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
"I told you," he declared, tapping the screen with evident satisfaction. "Zhuge Wuhou and I are very familiar."